The Boy in White Trainers
by WeepingAngelXIII
Summary: In 1989, young swimmer Carl Powers drowned in a London pool after suffering from a fit.  It looks like an accident but two twelve-year-old boys know otherwise: one is a young detective and the other is the boy who killed him...
1. Jim's Story

There's a point in everyone's life where at some point there's someone you hate: someone you just wish that they'd disappear forever. People sometimes wish the people they hate dead, and sometimes they even make sure they die. There are some people out there who are so angry with someone that they will kill them and even that is divided in two. There are those who would kill and regret, not knowing really what they did. Then there are those who plan for ages and carry out that murder with cool planning, making it look accidental or even giving themselves and alibi. Jim Moriarty had planned his murder carefully. It would be a tragic accident and nobody would ever suspect him, for two reasons. One: the whole thing would look accidental as nobody would even suspect the near-untraceable poison he had mixed in with the cream. And two: nobody would ever suspect him, merely because he was a twelve-year-old boy.

Jim knew how people thought. He knew that Carl Powers was a bully. The worst thing though was he knew how clever he was. Jim Moriarty was a genius and he knew it, and he wasn't afraid to use his intelligence to hurt people. Carl Powers laughed at him because of his intelligence, his lack of sporting ability, his Irish accent, anything he could possibly laugh at. Cruelty like that deserved to be punished, so Jim stole a powerful and untraceable poison from a pharmacy and mixed it in with Carl's medication.

It was no secret to anyone that Carl had medication. Carl had bad eczema all over his arms and his legs. He had cream for it just as anyone with bad eczema would do. Jim was good with timing as well. He had planned this for weeks. He knew that Carl would go down to London for a swimming competition. It was almost too perfect. He'd switched the creams just before Carl's journey from Brighton was due. Nobody noticed at all.

Jim followed on the train at a safe distance. He couldn't really help it. It was his only weakness. He was so changeable. He had originally planned not to go to London but when the time came, the opportunity was too fantastic to miss. Nobody really paid him any attention on the train. Even when he got off he knew how to avoid detection. He stayed close to a woman in the crowd about the age of his mother and followed her until she left the station. Now... which way was the pool?

Carl Powers was the best swimmer at the school and had gone from Brighton that morning to go to a regional competition or something. Jim shouldered his backpack and headed towards the pool. He had remembered the name of the pool. He had to watch this happen. Jim smiled slightly as he neared the pool. He wanted to see their faces.

Carl was already there when he arrived. It wasn't hard to see him with those stupidly big feet. Oh... Jim paused, an evil glimmer in his eyes. He was wearing those trainers of his. He loved those shoes. Jim didn't understand why. They were shoes after all. Jim wandered over to the door leant on the door, watching. Carl had seen him though. Jim didn't waver as Carl came towards him. He was the one in control now.

"What the hell're you doing here?" asked Carl, folding his arms. Jim raised his eyebrows and smiled in an annoyingly superior way.

"What? Are you going to stop me? Am I not allowed to come and see you swim?"

"Why the hell would you do that? What is with you, freak? You gay or something?" Jim laughed and put his hands in his pockets.

"No one said that," he smiled. "On what evidence, Carl?" Carl squinted at him in an expression somewhere between puzzlement and disbelief.

"You're a freak," he said, and turned back to the cubical where the other swimmers were gathering. "See you at school, Paddy." Jim resisted the urge to push him into the pool right now.

_But, _he considered, _that would just ruin the fun._ Jim just stood there and watched, waiting for the competition to begin.

Nobody realised what was going on. Carl Powers had just tensed up in the water. He couldn't even yell for help. He couldn't swim to the side. It just looked like a fit. The poison worked through his system and froze up his muscles. Tragically, Carl was beyond help when they got him out of the water. Jim watched from afar, but for half a second, Carl's panicked eyes met his. Did he know? It was almost as if in his dying moments that Carl Powers had realised what Jim Moriarty had done. It was all Jim could do to keep himself from laughing. This was so much fun. He loved this, but still he would need a memento, a trophy: the trainers. Whilst every other person at the pool was fussing over Carl as his life drained out of him, Jim headed to the lockers. He had seen where Carl had left his key on the bench and opened it up. Ignoring every other item in the locker, he pulled out Carl's beloved white trainers and stuffed them into his backpack. They were nice shoes. Carl loved them. Jim left grinning as first-aiders tried to revive Carl. He stopped, arranged his face into a normal expression and was onto the street before anyone noticed. Now... back to Brighton.


	2. Sherlock's Story

"But if that's the case then where are his shoes?" asked the Sherlock, leaning over the desk. The policeman on the other side of the desk was wearing that same annoyed and tired expression that he knew so well by now. Sherlock ignored the warning as usual and just carried on talking. "Look, there would be no reason for the shoes to be missing and he definitely went into that pool wearing them, so the logic is clear that someone took them, and why would they do that if this was just a tragic accident? I think you'll need to..."

"Look," the Policeman snapped, surveying the boy with mounting dislike. "We can do our job fine without taking advice from kids. There's nothing suspicious about Carl Powers' death."

"The shoes," prompted Sherlock. "Why would someone take them? Logically? Why if not to cover up something?" The policeman screwed up his eyes as if even listening to the words coming out of the boy's mouth was giving him a headache.

"Haven't you somewhere else to be?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head stubbornly and folded his arms. The policeman appeared to be running out of things to say. The problem was that Sherlock was only twelve. Nobody would listen to a twelve-year-old boy, no matter how persistent he was. Maybe if he could convince...

"Sherlock!"

...Speak of the devil. Sherlock turned.

Mycroft wasn't looking too pleased when Sherlock saw him. He looked tired (dark rings under his eyes due to lack of sleep). He had evidently not slept well, if at all, on the train back to London. He'd only just got back too. The suit he was still wearing gave that away (Mycroft only wore suits when going away for an important reason – in this case he had gone to Cambridge). He wasn't carrying a bag though, so he must have taken it back home. Conclusion: Mycroft had just arrived back and Mother had sent him out to find his little brother because Sherlock had seen it unnecessary to tell her where he was going. Mycroft had heard about the death of that boy in the pool and had deduced where Sherlock would be. Sherlock was sure that his brother, like him, had noticed something suspicious about the shoes, but Mycroft wasn't showing it. Sherlock kept his sharp eyes on his brother as Mycroft came over to him.

"Mother sent me out to look for you," he said, confirming what Sherlock had already deduced. "You probably should have told her you were going out."

"It would have wasted time," Sherlock said pointedly. "You heard, I guess."

"Why else would I be here?" asked Mycroft. "I am aware how it seems and I know why you're here. It's about the shoes. Am I right, Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't even bother to nod in reply. Mycroft already knew he was right.

"It could have been an accident except for those shoes," said Sherlock. "They can't just have disappeared. And I don't like things that don't make sense. It makes it look suspicious." Mycroft's lips twitched in a small smile.

"Clearly it seems as if you're the only one," he said. "The police won't listen, and you should have known that before you came."

"They _need_ to listen," said the boy. "You know there's something wrong too, maybe if you helped..."

"Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "It's not going to help, no matter what you say. The police won't pay you attention."

"But..."

"Sherlock." The boy glared at his older brother. Mycroft ignored him. "Let's go."

"Mycroft, it's not right."

"I know that. You know that, but they won't believe you."

"You..."

"Or me. We're two people, Sherlock. You're twelve; I'm nineteen. They won't believe either."

"Mycroft!"

"We're going back."

Sherlock glared at his brother for a few seconds longer, making Mycroft begin to wish he should have said something too. Then Sherlock spoke in a worryingly steady voice.

"I should have known better than to think that you'd speak up," he said, and walked out of the door. Mycroft took a breath in through his teeth, considering. Sherlock was going to be angry now. He watched the boy march down the road ahead of him as he followed. He was right, of course. Sherlock just knew things like that, or that's what the lesser person thought. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had had a knack for noticing things, little things, which most people wouldn't see. These things were vital, like what became of that boy's shoes. The only problem was (and Sherlock didn't quite seem to have understood this part), people didn't like being told what to do or thought you were being nosey when you did that. Mycroft had learnt a while ago not to voice everything that he detected. Sherlock didn't. He just told them bluntly. Still, he was a genius and he knew it. Mycroft kept his eye on the boy as he made his way back home. He would have to make it up to him at some point, but Sherlock was very childish still. After all he was only twelve. Maybe he would grow out of it. Mycroft nearly laughed. Somehow... he just couldn't imagine it.


End file.
